


The Moon and the Tide

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mermaid, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme: Malik is a merman who first falls in love with the world of air, and then with a human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The start date of the story was in February 2011, and I have continued to write and edit chapters pretty sporadically. This is very loosely based on The Little Mermaid, as I think the request called for some kind of rendition, haha. I finally feel comfortable enough to post the beginning parts that were originally on the kink meme. I apologize for the slow updates! 
> 
> Thanks to [solaciolum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/solaciolum/) and Endy for the beta!

It starts with a storm.  
  
The water rolls with a flurry of air and bubbles that would suffocate a mer if they are too careless. Malik never intends to linger more than he has to, but he happens to turn his gaze upwards to the sight of the dark shadow of a ship, coming dangerously close to the sharp reefs where he sometimes visits to gather fish and clams, and occasionally the trinkets from bodies of dead, half eaten sailors.   
  
He is almost eager to have the ship crash into the hills of coral. Malik knows what the humans carry with them—fascinating things like metals and gems and spices, items not found anywhere within the ocean—though it’s the steel that Malik loves collecting. The precious metal fetches a high price in the market, and if he ever has the chance to talk with a human, he would surely ask how they are made, hard and sharp and nearly unbreakable, nothing like glass at all.  
  
Malik tails the ship as closely as possible, still keeping low and away from the reef. Lightning flashes and he can make out the outline of sails, already yearning to feel the strange fabric in his hands. He has read once that the cloth is made from cotton, and that it sprouts from the ground like seagrass and kelp. Such a baffling place the world above must be, he thinks, craning his neck to look up.  
  
There is another flash of lightning and Malik catches a glimpse of a small shadow falling into the sea. It is a human, but humans are forever falling into the ocean, so Malik doesn’t think to pay it any attention until he sees the glint of metal strapped to the human’s hip.   
  
Judging from the panicked way the human’s limbs are flailing, it doesn’t have long to live, and Malik, ever practical, swims towards it.  
  
In hindsight, it would have been a better idea to at least wait for the human to expire before trying to wrench the sword away. All it does is send mixed messages, and it’s rather hard to communicate with a drowning human underwater, especially when the human is incoherent with fear and doesn’t know any better than to wrap it’s arms and—ugh,  _legs_ —around Malik’s torso. Malik shouts, angry, and tries to pull away.  
  
For a second, the human stills, startled, and  _looks_ at him.  
  
Many things happen after that. Things like a hand on the back of Malik’s head, clinging and desperate, the sliver of golden eyes before they squeeze back shut, and muffled words that take the form of bubbles, but Malik can hear each plea that tickles by his ear, fleeting and growing weaker by the moment.  
  
Malik doesn’t intend to save the human, but he does, though he has to knock it over the head first to stop the stupid thing from struggling. Above them the storm rages on and there are many times when Malik starts to think the human is not worth the trouble, dragging and pulling and trying to keep its head above the water. It becomes even more difficult as the water starts to become shallow and Malik has to flop awkwardly on the beach, his tail thrashing in frustration since his arms are full of unconscious  _human_ .  
  
The air makes him feel lightheaded, but Malik sits up to check the rise and fall of the man’s chest, amused to find that humans and mer are oddly similar in some ways. He looks into the pale face, noting the scar on its lips, the strands of hair slicked from its forehead, and almost wishes he could see more of the strange golden eyes.  
  
“I saved your life, so it is only fair that I am rewarded,” Malik says instead, tilting his head at the curious sound of his voice, how sharp and clear it is, like a blade.  
  
And it all ends on the shore, with the sun shining against his back and the sword in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The fish tell him that there is a man who stands by the pier, dropping copper coins into the water.  
  
They are annoyed because they have no use for copper and would rather have breadcrumbs or slop and dirty swill to nibble on. Malik only listens because they mention the man has golden eyes.  
  
He only follows them because he wants the coins.  
  
And he only stays beneath the pier, hidden and quiet, because the man with the golden eyes speaks to the ocean like a crazy person.  
  
The man says, “My master tells me I should be grateful that the spirits of the sea seem to favor me.”  
  
A coin plops into the water, and Malik waits for it to sink all the way to the floor before picking it up. Meanwhile, the human recites a prayer of some sort, dull and monotonous like memorized lines from a text he has only learned to appease his master. The moment he is finished, his words become colored with sarcasm and arrogance.   
  
“So, merciful sea spirits, I offer you four—no,  _five_  copper coins in thanks. May I never have the misfortune to be swept away by your waves again,” he drawls, and tosses a small pouch into the water.  
  
This, Malik darts out for, snatching the pouch and retreating back to the shadows of the pier. He tugs it open, looking at the copper coins; they are small and round, but beautiful in the palm of his hand. The man starts to walk away, wooden boards creaking despite the lightness of his steps.  
  
Malik does not know the worth of five copper coins on land, but they are precious underwater. He digs through the pouch he carries, fingers tangling with the string of glass beads he keeps as a decorative charm. The glass comes from the volcano that bubbles and steams in the deepest part of the ocean, so maybe it might be something special to humans. In any case, a part of him just wants to prove the man wrong—Malik might not be a sea spirit, but the human seems to think that it was only luck that has saved him the night of the storm.  
  
Peeking above the murky water, he squints at the man’s retreating back and tosses the charm.  
  
Malik’s aim is horrible—he forgets that air is thinner than water—and the charm hits the human on the head. He ducks back down, torn between mortification and having to stifle his snickering at the man’s yelp of surprise.  
  
He doesn’t end up staying, as the human grows suspicious enough to start peering into the water, but the weight of the coins feel pleasant in Malik’s hand, even long after he dives back into the depths where the sunlight can’t touch him.

 

* * *

Malik visits the pier for the second day in the row. Somehow, he is unsurprised to find the man there.

The man doesn’t say his prayer of thanks, but he drops a small knife, silver and shining, into the water.

Malik searches through his pouch again and waits until the human looks away so that he could slip his own blade, made from blue coral, through the cracks of the wooden beams. Its jagged edges scrape loudly on the wood, causing the human to turn quickly.

The man gets on all fours, trying to see through the cracks, but Malik is long gone by then, clutching the silver knife with a grin that does not fade for a long while.

 

* * *

  
On the third day, the human leaves out a necklace with a single pearl, sounding smug about how he has managed to obtain it from a thief. (And he adamant in telling Malik—or the sea spirit, really—that he has had no luck in finding its owner, and that the pearl is better off back in the sea.)  
  
Malik scoffs from his spot in the shadows, leaning against the mossy support beams. He throws pebbles when the man is not looking, and is pleased to find that his aim has gotten much better.  


* * *

  
The next day the human drops tiny parcels of spices and tea from a place called China. They blossom and bloom in the water, leaving behind an earthy, pleasant scent.  
  
Malik places a cup, carved from the white bone of a whale with patterned edges of waves, on the far edge of the pier for the man—whose eyes have gotten far too swift as of late—and watches, this time, as the man kneels to pick it up with a smile.

 

* * *

  
The fifth day—a dagger, inlaid with gold veins and purely ornamental. The hilt may be pretty, but the blade is too weak to be used in battles, the man says, as if he wants to explain the expensive gift. The human is a warrior, a fighter, and Malik feels himself draw closer, internally, despite that he keeps perfectly still beneath the water.  
  
All he has in return is a little glass figurine of a flower—hardly adequate for a fighter—but next time he visits, he’ll be prepared.  


* * *

  
A week later, the man gives Malik his name.  
  
Malik doesn’t answer, and only begins to see how far he has fallen.  


* * *

  
Kadar says, “You’ve been visiting the harbor again. It’s that human, isn’t it?”  
  
His gaze shifts to the sword resting in Malik’s hands and flickers to the other foreign trinkets scattered around the cavern. Unlike all the other times he has said this, his voice takes on an accusatory tone, hurt and not able to understand what the realm of air and sun has to offer, the mysterious beauty it holds—things like fire and clouds and the strange invisible force that pulls you down to the ground. The human plays a part in it, yes, but it is not the only thing that captivates Malik about the world above.  
  
He lifts his head from the bed of coral, feeling the shudder of sea anemones as they retreat back into themselves. Kadar stares back at him, mouth drawn into an unhappy line. For a moment, Malik considers lying, not to ease his brother’s worries, but to prevent him from asking anymore than he should, because they both know that the answer will always be the same.  
  
“If you had been there, maybe you would see,” he says, giving the sword a practiced swing; the metal is all too heavy in the water, and the momentum drives him back, pulling at his arm like a graceless, retreating wave.  
  
Kadar says something in return, but Malik is too busy wondering what it would be like if he could wield the sword in air, with Altair at his side, guiding him through the motions.  


* * *

  
The next gift Malik receives from the world above is not from Altair, but from the sky.  
  
It splashes into the water, round and golden, and distracts Malik from visiting the pier that day. He holds out his hand, curious, and stares as it glows with a light of its own.  
  
“I am called the Apple,” the sphere says in a voice that reminds him of rolling thunder.   
  
He can feel its power, heavy and oppressing. It should scare him, but Malik finds himself entranced, and quickly takes the Apple into his cavern, glad that Kadar is out for the day.  
  
In the darkness, the Apple promises him a wish, though it reads his heart and knows what Malik desires.  
  
“If it is your wish to become human, I shall grant it,” it tells him, “but only if the conditions are met.”  
  
“What do you require?”  
  
“Your arm.”  
  
Malik frowns, suspicious. “An arm does not equal two legs.”  
  
The Apple shimmers, almost as if it was laughing. It clarifies, “Your arm and your blood.”  
  
“How much blood?”  
  
“Your smallest blood,” the Apple says, much too cryptic—but Malik is already thinking of fires and metals and the wind on his face. Blood is a paltry payment. The Apple shimmers again.   
  
“If you can find a person who loves the sea as much as you love the land within a moon’s cycle, and seal the spell with a shared breath of air and water, a human you will remain. But you cannot tell anyone of your true nature, or else your throat will close and turn against you; I will make sure of that.”  
  
Malik can feel himself trembling. He wants this, wants despite the price.   
  
“Yes,” he breaths, just as Kadar drifts into the cavern, eyes wide.  
  
“ _Malik-_ “  
  
He drops the Apple, shouting, but it’s all too late.


	3. Chapter 3

Malik washes up on the shore, coughing and thrashing. The air is too light and comes in too quickly to fill in his new lungs, only rushing out again when he tries to stifle his sobs. He cannot wipe his tears because his single hand is gripping on a sword—Altair’s—and how he manages to keep it, when he cannot even keep his brother, is nearly laughable if it isn’t for the pain.  
  
His legs are bare, scraped raw and bleeding from when he drags himself over the sand, which feels unnatural and sharp against the skin. Malik knows he should stand, or at least try to, but he’s hurting all over.  
  
“Hey, that is  _my_  sword.”  
  
Altair is there, suddenly, towering over him with a scowl. His movements are precise and forceful, using the heel of his boot to nudge Malik over. This isn’t the same man who has spent hours talking to the sea, though Malik can smell the spices from the pouch at Altair’s hip—and maybe he had been on his way to the pier, or was coming back from it, disappointed and angry that the sea spirit did not show up.  
  
Malik tries to explain, but his throat closes and he gags, just like the Apple promises.  
  
“Oh,” Altair says, sounding surprised. “Did your ship sink? Or did you fall off it?” Even his worried expression looks condescending.  
  
Malik wants nothing more than to strike him and blame him for everything.  
  
“You,” he cries, and swings the sword at the man’s throat, but, as always on land, his aim is off and Malik can’t keep to his feet on the uneven sand. He wobbles, and the sword buries itself into the ground.  
  
“Are you insane?” Altair asks, unimpressed. He hasn’t moved from his spot, and that enrages Malik even further.  
  
He is helpless and everything just hurts so much. Malik tries to attack him again, but Altair moves with a grace that Malik has only seen underwater, flowing and smooth, and twists his arm so that the sword falls from his hand.  
  
“I should kill you,” Altair growls, placing his palm under Malik’s chin—it is only later that Malik realizes the missing finger and hidden blade at his forearm—and pushes forward. “But you are lucky my master does not allow me to kill an innocent, if you are indeed innocent, and… what are you doing?”  
  
Malik is not yet used to his new legs, so he grips Altair’s shoulder with his arm and leans against him, propping his chin on Altair’s palm.  
  
“I cannot stand,” he hisses, hating this weakness, however new it is to him.  
  
Altair’s hand twitches, his fingers brushing over Malik’s cheek, before it draws away. There is pity in his eyes. Malik stumbles, but Altair brings himself closer, cautious, and puts Malik’s arm over his shoulders to hold him up.  
  
“Where did you come from?” he demands, kneeling to retrieve his sword.   
  
The quick movement makes Malik dizzy, and he realizes how tired he is. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an incoherent gurgle until he coughs and says, “I cannot tell you.”  
  
Altair frowns, but he starts to walk; Malik watches his feet, observing how they move. The first step they take together, Malik nearly trips and Altair has to pull him back up.  
  
“Are you injured?” he asks, but when he checks Malik’s legs he only finds tiny cuts and bruises.  
  
“I cannot walk,” Malik says, exasperated that he has to repeat himself, and that he can’t explain  _why_ . “But I will learn.”  
  
Altair throws him an odd look.  
  
“What is your name?”  
  
“Malik,” he says, and is surprised that he can.  
  
“I am Altair.”  
  
_I know_ , Malik wants to say, but walking is difficult and Altair does not seem to mind the silence.  
  
He doesn’t ask where they are going, but he looks over his shoulder to watch the ocean disappear from sight, taking the last of the sun’s waning glow with it. Tonight will be moonless, Malik thinks numbly, and turns away to see the world of humans and air and fire spread out before him.  


* * *

  
The first thing Malik learns of the human world is that Altair is proud and thoughtless. There are other things as well, but the list grows longer by the hour. When he wakes up in the morning, still sweating and anxious from lingering nightmares, Altair is at his side, looking impatient.  
  
“Where did you get the sword?” Altair asks again, not waiting for Malik to struggle up on his elbow to meet his gaze.  
  
“I found it,” Malik says, blinking from the sunlight that shines through open ceiling; it is very bright. Twisting around, he takes in the rest of the room, as he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit pallet the night before. He is unable to comprehend most of the things he sees, so he settles for the most familiar sight, which is unfortunately Altair.  
  
“Where?”  
  
“The sea,” Malik snaps, tired of the questions when he has so many of his own. “It fell from a ship where I— _ngh!_ ”  
  
He coughs, massaging his throat, and is offended when Altair leaves his side and walks away. With a displeased hiss, Altair pauses to quickly grab something from a nearby shelf before he exits the room and returns a moment later with a cup of water, thrusting it into Malik’s hand.  
  
Malik stares, not understanding.  
  
“Well? Drink,” Altair orders.  
  
“It’s water,” he replies, baffled, but his mouth feels dry, so maybe it makes sense.  
  
“Would you prefer wine, then? Or fresh fruit juice?” Altair drawls, and roughly nudges the cup to Malik’s lips and the liquid sloshes into his open mouth.  
  
The water is not like the sea; it’s warm and clayish, but devoid of salt and Malik drinks it greedily, and learns what thirst means to a human for the first time.  
  
“More,” he gasps, holding the cup out, thumb running over the patterned edges, carved into white bone. He swallows his pride and says, “Please.”  
  
But Altair is already turning around to exit the room. “I am not your nursemaid; go get it yourself. The fountain is in the chamber.”  
  
Malik stills at the tone of his voice. He doesn’t know this human, this stranger who speaks with so little regard or grace. Even the man’s footsteps sound different, gone utterly silent as if ghosting over the ground, while Malik only recognizes them by the gentle creaks on weather-worn wood.   
  
But he refuses to be ignored, not after all he has sacrificed to be here. Without thinking, he hurls the cup at Altair’s head. It is childish and petty, but he can’t help but be glad when Altair whirls around to face him, catching the cup with a speed that can only be made in the world of air.  
  
He takes three steps to cross the room, a breath to grab Malik’s wrist, and a blink to bend it back so that Malik can feel his bones strain in protest.  
  
“I will not hesitate to rid you of your remaining arm,” Altair murmurs, soft and dangerous.  
  
“And why wouldn’t you, when I had—“ Malik stops as his breath hitches for no other reason than sorcery, and bitterly bites back his retort. “…The cup. It is only a cup.”  
  
“You threw it at my head. And that cup was a gift.”  
  
“From who?” Malik challenges, heart thudding in his chest.  
  
Altair pauses, letting go of Malik’s wrist, and steps back. “It was a gift,” he repeats. “And it is none of your concern.”  
  
“No one would want to give you anything,” Malik sneers, with all his anger and guilt. “You traded for it.”  
  
Something shifts in Altair’s expression, from murderous to hurt to carefully blank. He takes another step back, placing the cup on a shelf of books, and Malik notices a little too late the tiny glass figurine resting there, and the beaded charm that swings from Altair’s hip as he walks out of the room.  
  
“I do not have time for this,” Altair says, “I am late to meet with my master. Either stay here or get out, it does not matter. Rashad will be in the back room, so do not even think to try anything regrettable.”  
  
Malik doesn’t make promises, but it does not matter; Altair will not wait for them.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Malik’s energies are not made to be confined, sulking in a strange room. There is anger clouding his mind, and the beginning of what he suspects is hatred, making his restlessness unbearable. He thinks of the man he thought he knew, pacing back and forth on the harbor, fearful of the water, but earnest when he speaks to it. The human who had left him here, alone, is not the same man.  
  
It is easy to accept this. It makes him less angry.  
  
For the first time, Malik studies his legs, wiggling his toes and poking at his feet. The muscles beneath his hand are defined, so he assumes that they are reasonably sturdy, a reflection of his strength had he still possessed a tail. Assured that weakness will not be the cause of falling over, Malik braces his hand— _only_  hand—against the wall and stands. He takes one step, another and another, and then he slowly sinks back down to the ground to crawl back to the wall.  
  
The rest of his morning is spent learning to walk back and forth from the room to the fountain, clinging to the wall or tables or bookshelves, and sometimes Rashad.   
  
“I wonder what ails your legs to make you forget how to walk,” the rafiq says, looking amused as Malik slumps over the fountain’s edge for a break.  
  
“What ails me is not my legs, but my own lack of experience,” Malik huffs. He finds that he likes Rashad, who is old but patient and doesn’t mind when Malik asks questions about the weaponry mounted to the walls.   
  
“Were you a prince, then? Who rode upon the backs of men to get from one room to the next?”  
  
“No, I was carried on a dais made from gold,” Malik replies, giving his most regal expression, despite that he is covered in dust and his hair drips from dunking his head into the fountain.  
  
Rashad laughs, and, unexpectedly, Malik allows himself to smile.

* * *

  
He does not see Altair again for a week, but by then Malik has learned several things. He has to, or else his mind will wander to its own aches and pains. For now, Malik wants to focus on what is physical.  
  
He learns that sitting too long in the sun will make him dizzy, and that all things will eventually fall, no matter how light they are, and that horses are not to be smacked around like dolphins. He also learns that crying is harder to hide, and requires a great deal of dry cloth to muffle the noise, even when no one is around to hear. The days are too hot, and nights are too cold. Clothes are always necessary.   
  
Tiny knives, like the one Altair had given him, are more likely to be thrown at enemies than given as a gift. Malik finds this amusing.  
  
As the days pass, Malik fills his time with the chores Rashad is kind enough to assign him. The menial tasks help him learn how to move his legs, his arm, and how to balance and settle his weight on his feet. He finds comfort in the distractions until he lays on his pallet at night with the half-moon shining through the lattice rooftop.   
  
A  _week_  — that is a quarter of his time spent without regard to the spell, the curse. Malik regrets so much already, and he knows that, given the chance, he would dive back into the ocean if only he did not have to hold his breath. But even though he is trapped here, walking on land and breathing air, he does not want to regret anymore by wasting his time, counting days and keeping a constant, pathetic vigil over the moon.   
  
Malik turns on his side, away from the night sky, and stares at the blades hanging from the far wall, glinting dimly in the dark. In the corner is Altair’s old sword, untouched since that first morning.   
  
Malik shuts his eyes, unhappy but determined. He wants to return home, but he will not allow himself to squander his remaining time in this world. 

* * *

  
The noise outside has been going on for several minutes. It is beginning to annoy Malik, but Rashad only glances up at the open ceiling, as if waiting for something to fall through it.  
  
“What is it?” Malik asks, prying off the throwing knives from the wooden beam he has been using to practice with.   
  
“The city’s bells,” Rashad says, pulling a heavy book from a shelf. “Something is troubling the guards.”  
  
“But it does not trouble you.”  
  
Rashad grins. “On the contrary,” he begins, just as a figure drops from the roof and into the chamber.  
  
Altair strides into the main room, a triumphant gleam in his eyes despite looking worse for wear. He pulls out a feather from his belt, gaze settling on Malik for a moment before he looks back up to hand Rashad the feather. Half the bristles are stained dark red and Malik does not doubt for a moment that it is blood.   
  
To Malik’s wry pleasure, Rashad does not acknowledge Altair’s quiet posturing. He takes the feather, pressing it into the voluminous book with a businesslike air. Malik has seen this happen for the last few days with other men who visit the bureau, keeping quiet and observing when Rashad does not wave him out of the room.   
  
The work that these people do is secretive and dangerous. Malik does not particularly want to get himself involved, but he does not need to see or smell the blood on Altair’s robes to know the man’s occupation. He has guessed long ago from the weapons in the bureau and its patrons, and perhaps he has known ever since Altair threatened him on the beach with that strange hidden blade.   
  
“No, I have told you before, I have no more contracts for you to fill,” Rashad says to the assassin. He gives Altair a hard stare, silently pointing out Altair’s ragged state; the man’s robes are frayed and torn at the edges, his face is rough with a couple of day’s worth of stubble, and he could do for a wash. “You frequent this city enough as it is. Rest, Altair, and if you do not feel the need then tend to your injuries and weapons.”  
  
Altair growls something too low to be heard from Malik’s spot on the other side of the room. Rashad remains indifferent, though there is a warning note in his tone that makes Malik look up from his throwing knives.  
  
“You will not earn back your rank by being impervious and impudent,” the rafiq replies. “I thought you had learned this.”  
  
Rashad cannot see from behind the counter, but Malik catches how Altair’s hands curl into fists. It does not last more than a couple of seconds before Altair nods, once, and says in a subdued voice, “Then if you have no need for me-”  
  
“I do not,” Rashad says dismissively, and Malik bites the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, feeling that it was a mistake for Rashad to interrupt Altair when the man was about to concede a point, however ungraciously done.  
  
Malik watches Altair draw himself up, closing off and backing away. It is not anything visible outright, but Malik has spent hours listening to the sound of Altair’s voice, staring at his wavering silhouette on the water from under the pier; Malik does not need to look at Altair at all to understand, a little, where the arrogance comes from and why it circles despite the chiding and harsh reminders.  
  
“Safety and peace,” Altair says, and stalks out of the room.  
  
Rashad does not look up until he hears the sound of a whetstone dragging against steel, barely audible over the ringing alarm bells. Malik walks forward with the careful, quiet steps he has learned and peers into the waiting chamber to see Altair by the fountain, sharpening his sword — a new one, since the one Malik took still rests in the corner. Altair’s head lifts by a fraction, knowing that Malik is there, but he remains stubbornly silent.  
  
Malik does not know what to make of it, of sulking humans and ruffled tempers, so he turns away and finishes retrieving the embedded knives from the wooden post.

* * *

  
They only notice Altair’s absence when the bells stop their clanging and no sound comes from the waiting chamber. Rashad leaves his desk to look into the room and scowls to find it empty with only the lingering scent of polish and oil to prove that Altair had indeed taken Rashad’s advice to the word, but not to heart.  
  
“That fool,” Rashad hisses.  
  
Beneath the anger the rafiq is worried. Malik enters the chamber, sees the cushions where Altair would normally rest in, and looks up at the open ceiling. It is a sunny day.  
  
“What does he plan to do?” He does not ask why, precisely, because even Malik can see the appeal of going outside, though it does not explain the lack of caution on Altair’s part, leaving the bureau so soon after the city’s alarm was called off.  
  
Rashad heaves a sigh. “He has fallen out of favor with our master recently, and seeks to redeem himself. I suppose he considers resting an idle waste of his time,” he says wryly. “But while I do not doubt his determination, I would rather not have him kill himself from exhaustion.”  
  
Malik looks up again, raising a hand against the warm sunlight, and feels as if the decision has already been made.  
  
“I will go and get him,” he says, leaving little room to argue when he strings a belt of knives over his shoulder.  
  
“You know your way around the city?” Rashad asks, since it is better than pointing out that, a week ago, Malik could barely even walk.  
  
“I am confident,” Malik replies, having studied the maps tacked on the walls. He has a good memory, but he knows it still does not guarantee that he will not run into trouble.  
  
He makes sure to bring Altair’s sword.

* * *

  
The streets around the bureau are no longer as strange and foreign to Malik as they were when he first accompanied Rashad to the market many days ago. This is the first time he has been left to his own devices, and he feels a tiny thrill of excitement, venturing out further than he has been allowed to. Though he has no time to stand and gawk at his surroundings, it always amazes Malik how filled the streets are, with merchant stalls and all sorts of people, crowded into narrow paths.   
  
Back home, there are so such things. The mer are not confined to the ground; they swim around and over their buildings, have stalls on top of other stalls, and glide past each other overhead and undertail. It is sometimes chaotic to see, but it is rarely ever cluttered or crowded like it is on land.   
  
Strangely, though, Malik does not think of wasted space when he looks at the gap between the rooftops and the sky. He sees a stillness that is calm and inviting, where animals of flight are given free reign over its vastness. He does not wish for wings, but with his legs he can marvel at the sky more clearly than he did in the water.  
  
There is a tower in the distance that seems to almost reach the clouds. Malik uses it as a marker, knowing where it stands in relation to where he is; on the map, it is a symbol of a bird — an eagle, he remembers Rashad telling him. It is fitting, since Malik can see the bird circling around the tower where it also has a perch, which is a curious thing to have.  
  
But what’s even more curious is the figure occupying it. At first, Malik thinks it is a statue, but the shadow moves, and it is much too large to be another eagle. When it jumps, it falls instead of flies, and has the shape of a man.  
  
Malik frowns, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed, but the people on the streets are far too busy looking ahead or down, never upwards. Or perhaps men leaping off from towers is a natural occurrence; maybe it is another animal of flight Malik does not know about.  
  
The tower is far, but he is prepared to walk all the way to find out.

* * *

  
It takes him far longer than he thinks to navigate around the city. He has the map in his mind’s eye, but Malik underestimates his susceptibility to the different sights, sounds, and smells of Acre. Everything draws his attention for the quickest of moments and it all adds up into minutes spent observing the food sellers, the weaponsmiths, the beggars and hawkers. He once changed his path just to run his hand over the patterns carved into a bubbling fountain, though he keeps walking as if only passing by. Occasionally he will catch the scent of the sea and turn his head, but the only blue he sees is the sky, and there is always the tower to guide him back.  
  
It is ironic that he never reaches it in the end.  
  
Malik is on another unplanned detour when he finally finds Altair, thinking that the sounds of ringing metal and steel will lead him to another blacksmith’s shop. He rounds the corner into a smaller street, a little too late in hearing the shouts and cries of men fighting over the regular noise of the city.  
  
Altair is in the thick of it, snarling and grinning with no one at his side except for the dagger in his hand. He is a good fighter, Malik can see the proof already — the bodies of several guards on the ground — but Malik does not care if Altair has been wading over a thousand corpses; the assassin is  _still_  fighting outnumbered. Malik does not hesitate to put his self-taught aim to test.  
  
He throws his knives, taking down two guards, while his third knife bounces off the harder armor of the one Altair is fighting. It is not perfect, but Malik unsheathes his sword, slightly taken aback at how light it feels when he swings it at his next opponent.   
  
It is a difficult battle, different from what he is used to. The flow and rhythm of the fight is faster, and Malik stumbles over his feet many times, but makes it up by the forceful, controlled strokes of his sword, following through it’s momentum and using it to his advantage, just as he does underwater.   
  
His technique must be odd to the guards, and he catches Altair taking quick glances in his direction, almost curious. Malik has no time to wonder if Altair is impressed or baffled, as he is continuously startled and becoming irritated by the things  _he_  is discovering in the fight. Things like the slippery mess of blood and thick scent of it, the missing drag of water, or how the dead do not possess the grace to float up or sink down to keep out of the way.  
  
Malik runs his sword through a guard and almost falls with the body, unprepared by the weight dragging him down. His missing left arm moves as if to brace against it, but Malik has no hand to grab with. Instead, he falls back against Altair, who is suddenly there beside him, though the assassin is busy locking blades with another of the enemy. Altair presses his back against him, a nudge, then, and Malik is back on his feet, trying to yank his sword free against gravity. He goes back to fighting.  
  
Before he knows it, there is no one left to fight. The guards stop coming, and the street is empty and filled with the noise of the dying and the fleeing — and yet Malik is still breathing too loud for his ears.   
  
He looks down at the bodies, wearily kneeling over one of them to see if they have any valuables. It is an ingrained habit, one that Altair apparently does not see the meaning of.  
  
“What are you doing? We have to leave,” Altair says impatiently, frowning when Malik stares at his dripping sword and robes, furtively trying to wipe it clean.   
  
Stilling, Malik thinks for a moment. His mouth is dry and he licks his lips, recoiling from the tang of copper, not knowing if it is his. “Does the blood...” and he makes an awkward gesture at the carnage as a whole, wondering if he should mention anything about sharks. “Does it attract anything?”  
  
Altair does not answer right away, but when he does, he sounds curt and exasperated. “Only more guards to fight, if that is what you want.”  
  
Both relieved and irked, Malik sheaths his sword and follows Altair away from the street, taking the lesser used routes that Malik had been too wary to take on his own.  
  
Altair moves at a brisk pace, fast to get away from where the fight took place but slow enough to not draw unwanted attention. Malik tries to regain his breath in the meanwhile, finding it hard to ignore the stickiness of the drying blood on his hand and the heavy smell of it on his clothes. He remembers seeing how it pools on the ground during the fight, very dark and viscous compared to the bright red wisps he sees when he has to deal with it in the water. Without knowing it, he stops, putting a hand to the wall of a ramshackle building to steady himself.   
  
Altair looks over his shoulder, raising his voice in disbelief. “Are you sick?”  
  
Malik is embarrassed. “I am not used to so much blood.”  
  
Altair scoffs. “You fight as though you were.”  
  
Malik thinks it might have been a compliment, the tiniest hint of appraisal from a warrior to another, but before he can say anything, Altair shakes his head.  
  
“How did you learn to fight?” the assassin asks, a shade incredulously. “It is obvious that you are trained, but you hold and wave that sword as if it weighed twice as much as it does, your posture is all wrong, and I still have yet to figure how you managed to not gut yourself, tripping over your own two feet as you did. Who taught you your footwork?”  
  
Malik holds back a bark of laughter. “No one. It is practically nonexistent,” he says dryly, but he is oddly pleased by Altair’s assessment. He will improve. Letting his hand drop from the wall, he inhales, and lets the air out slowly through his mouth. “Well? Perhaps next time I will find a bench and watch you surround yourself with guards instead.”  
  
“Yes, that is a good way to learn,” Altair says, smirking. He begins to walk again, a thoughtful look crossing his expression before he mutters, “Though I admit your movements are interesting. It flows well.”  
  
Malik nearly misses it, throat closing up as Altair brushes past and he smells of old blood. He nods, once, begins to gather himself for the long trek back to the bureau, but Altair leads him in the opposite direction.   
  
“You need to wash up. Rashad will not appreciate it if you stain his carpet,” Altair explains, glancing at the sorry state of Malik’s tunic — his lack of finesse with a sword shows. Malik grumbles; he is supposed to bring Altair back, not join him in gallivanting all over Acre. “And I will be even less so if you are sick all over me,” Altair adds.  
  
Ignoring the jab, Malik glances at the tower, his marker, but he already knows where the are. He can smell it in the air, salty and cool, and hear the call of seagulls and ships’ bells in the distance. They move past the line of barrels and boxes and the streets converge into a larger area, opening up into the harbor.   
  
Off to the side, Malik catches a glimpse of the tiny pier he used to hide under. It is strange, seeing it above water. Altair stops in front of him, blocking his path, and ushers Malik towards a well instead.  
  
“Go on,” Altair says, and leaves Malik to puzzle out the well for himself.  
  
It is not a difficult concept once Malik sees the rope and the bucket, but it is a rather tedious one, especially with one hand. He holds the bucket, frowns, and throws it into the well. It takes five pulls of the rope for him to drop it again in exasperation.   
  
“This is a waste of time,” he says to Altair.  
  
Altair glances at him, and Malik realizes that the assassin hasn’t been paying attention to him at all, only staring in the direction of the pier. “Do you need help?” he asks belatedly.  
  
“No,” Malik says, and walks past Altair, towards the pier. He strips off his outer tunic, bundling it up under his arm. Every step sends the wooden floorboards creaking.   
  
Altair hurries after him and yanks him back. “What do you think you are doing?”  
  
Malik shakes him off.   
  
“Washing up,” he answers, as if it was the most obvious thing, and hops off the pier.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It feels like hours later but in reality it has only been seconds.  Shivering and coughing, Malik grips on to the plank Altair has found and stuck over the edge of the pier.

“You jump into the water and you can’t even _swim_ ,” Altair exclaims from his spot above Malik, perfectly dry and safe.  He stands on one end the plank, weighing it down while Malik clings on to the other end; it is the extent of Altair’s assistance besides dragging the wooden board out to keep Malik from drowning in the first place. 

Malik scowls, ducking his head in fierce shame and consternation.  He should have been more conscious, more careful.  It is bad enough to mistaken the ability of his legs.  To do so in front of Altair _again_ —

“You have one arm!” Altair continues in disbelief.  “Jumping into fights and jumping off piers.  Are you always so reckless?”

Malik stares, unable to choose from the myriad of responses to say.  In the end he chooses to not answer at all, shrugging one shoulder indifferently.  His clothes are becoming heavy, making it unpleasant to linger in the water while still holding on to the plank. Next time, he will remember to remove his robes, and perhaps his weapons as well.

He begins to heave himself out of the water, but the pier is high and his legs are near useless for propelling himself upwards—something he will have to work on.  He has _seen_ other humans swim before, so it is not impossible.  Malik’s one-handed grip offers little balance, but a burst of strength allows him to get halfway onto the pier before making a clumsy grab at the nearest handhold—Altair’s boot.

Altair does not yell or make much noise, but he flails spectacularly before losing his footing and falling into the water with Malik.  The plank follows after, ensuring even more alarm and two nearly concussed men.  Malik cannot even see with all the splashing Altair is doing, but his hand hits the floating piece of wood and he clings on, breathing hard until he paddles over to Altair and yanks him by his ridiculous hood.

“Stop waving your arms and grab on,” Malik says, unimpressed when Altair’s hands clutch at his shoulders.  Their knees knock against each other and Malik feels himself quickly sinking. He delivers an encouraging kick to Altair’s shins to remove the dead weight, catching a glimpse of panicked golden eyes.  “I mean the plank!”  

Altair flounders a little less gripping at the other end of the wooden board.  He shakes off his sopping hood, looking rather pathetic even as he tries to regain his haughty demeanor.

“It is my robes.  And my weapons.  They weigh me down,” Altair explains.

“Ah, yes.  And possibly your ego as well,” Malik agrees, but he leaves his insult at that, seeing Altair’s white-knuckled grip.  “Come on, kick your legs.  The shore is not far.”

They paddle their way back to very same sliver of sand Altair first finds Malik, shivering in the cooling evening air.  The sun has not yet fallen below the horizon and Malik lingers in the shallow water to observe the deep red clouds fade to blue.  He lets the tips of his fingers drag through the water, smiling over the dragging weight he would not miss, and breathes in, no longer weak to the air.

He turns around to face the shore, and discovers Altair standing far away enough on the beach for the lapping waves to miss his boots, his shadow casting a narrow dark path behind him. 

Altair does not look at Malik or the sunset, only shows disinterest as he wrings the water from his robes.

“I will have to lay these out to dry,” he mutters, shaking his soaking gloves.

Malik considers the sopping wet figure in front of him, posture no longer arrogant and imposing, and hides his smirk.  “I used to be a fairly decent swimmer.”

“Before or after you forgot how to walk?” Altair abandons trying to dry his clothes.  He folds his arms, sullen.

“We can learn to swim together,” Malik says, dismissing Altair’s scoff.  He lowers himself to the ground, thumping into the sand at the last second, suddenly exhausted from the day.  Not caring if Altair finds him strange for lying back, he fixes his gaze to the sky, marveling as the first twinkle of stars start to appear.  

The moon shines, unobstructed by the clouds, crescent in shape.  There is still time left.  Malik ignores it, looks to Altair again instead. 

“Think on it," he says, "The sea has more to offer than water to drown you with.”

Altair does not answer him right away.  The sand pillows his footsteps to near silence, the only indication of moving are the tracks that will eventually wash away with the waves.

The sea, Malik thinks wryly, suits Altair more than he wants to believe. It would not be a terrible match, if only Altair would learn to swim.

“Get up,” Altair says, nudging Malik’s shoulder with his foot.  “Rashaad will want us back.”

“He has wanted you to stay put for the entire day,” Malik retorts, not moving.  “I was the one to come after you.”

Altair nudges him again, impatient.  “You have found me.  And after, you almost drowned the both of us.”

Malik presses his lips together to suppress his smile.  He sits up, sand clinging to the back of his robes and hair.  He is about to say something but stops to watch Altair stare out into the ocean, expression grim as his gaze flickers to the pier.

Altair’s hand drops in front of Malik, palm upturned.

“Get up,” Altair repeats.  He looks down, seemingly churlish, but taps his hand against Malik’s shoulder.  “If you are to teach me to swim, we had better start early tomorrow, before the pier becomes crowded.”

Malik tilts his head, not knowing what to make of Altair’s morose but determined stare.  He may miss the sea spirit, since he believes to not have seen it for days.   

Malik nods, not saying anything—he could not, even if he had wanted to—and takes Altair’s strong grip to haul himself to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I promise the next update won't be in three years, ahaha.


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